Welcome to the Smith Museum. Tours begin every fifteen minutes, three-hundred sixty-five days a year. Admission is free.
This portrait is my mother.
Plastic smile above the shoulders,
But below, the fists and knees are clenched.
This painting portrays my father.
He's right there in that empty spot.
He's a little hard to see, but you know he's there because of the kid crying in the foreground.
My sister was the inspiration for this sculpture. Perfectly proportioned, with a smooth, flawless surface. But don't touch her.
She's all crumbly underneath.
My brother is in the water fountain, at the end of the hall right outside the restrooms. He loses a little pressure when they flush.
I do all the framework myself, as the frames are so crucial to keeping the canvasses from becoming skewed and damaged. Sometimes it's the frame that makes the picture after all.
We were hoping to acquire a new collection from the Jones Gallery across the street, but it turns out that the works there were just bad reproductions of our originals.
I, of course, take great pride in keeping the lawn manicured, the floors polished and the exhibits impeccably preserved. Dust doesn't settle here. Careful lighting and the latest technological advances ensure that the colors remain vivid and the images are as sharp as the day they were painted. Sadly though, I know that I cannot maintain this facility forever. That's why I'm training my daughter to one day take over as curator.